


Je ne te regrette pas

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Forgiveness, Infidelity, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Chris and Zach, it all starts and ends in Paris. Until it starts again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je ne te regrette pas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a challenge at the pintofest community on LiveJournal.

I.

 _Paris, je te déteste._

Chris wrinkles his nose as he steps out of the airport, sliding sunglasses over his eyes. The French air smells sweet compared to the smog of Los Angeles, which Chris has come to prefer over all else. Beside him, John yawns loudly and mumbles something about a nap when they get to the hotel, as if he didn't just sleep through the entire flight. Zoe hasn't put down her guidebook for one second; she stands there, managing to look elegant as she flips through its pages, somehow avoiding the haggard, post-flight look that Chris is sure he's sporting himself.

The truth is, he doesn't _hate_ Paris; he's just tired of it. His parents dragged him here so many times when he was a kid that it's simply got no charm at this point. He wishes they were holding this premiere somewhere more exotic, a place he's never been—Tokyo or Buenos Aires, maybe. Somewhere less clichéd.

As it is, though, everyone's star struck, even Eric and Karl, arguably the more seasoned actors in the bunch. Chris tries to ignore all the talk about visiting the Eiffel Tower and wonders exactly how rude he'd come off if he just put his earbuds in right now.

"Oh, my god, Chris, look!" he suddenly hears, and he sees Zach's hand jutting out before he can spot his face. He's pointing toward the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Chris shakes his head and laughs, if only because Zach is so damn cute when he's excited.

"Yeah...been there, done that," Chris says, shrugging. "Got the lame photo of me standing at the base, in a bowtie, shorts and suspenders. Moved on."

"That sounds so _hot_." Zach grins, his eyebrows arching crazily. "We may have to recreate that Kodak moment, Christopher."

Chris smiles, more bashfully than he'd like, considering that Zach spent at least two hours drooling on his shoulder on their way over here. Once the drool barrier comes down, he figures, there's no need for shyness. Still, the way Zach says his name makes his head a little fuzzy, makes his scalp prickle. He tries out a stern voice in response—"No shorts," he says. Zach only snorts and rubs his back, likely sensing the tension in the muscles there; they seem to relax slightly with his touch.

"Cheer up," he offers, already pulling his bag toward the town car waiting for them and its attendant driver. "You're in Paris. Life is good."

"Yeah, I forgot for a second," Chris says, tugging on the handle of his own suitcase, licking his lips as he follows. "Thanks, man."

*

 _Paris, je t'aime._

The thing is, Zach's never been to Paris before. His mom did the best she could to take him and Joe on as many vacations as possible, but it was tough pleasing two boys on a single-parent income. Zach's childhood was punctuated with many, many trips to county fairs. One time, they got to go to DisneyWorld. And one other time, they went to New York. All it took was a front-row balcony seat at a Broadway show and Zach officially caught the acting bug.

Paris is...unreal. He wants to remember every second of it, every puddle of dog piss he has to step over on the street, every rude remark he gets in response to his mangled attempts at the native language. His only wish is that Chris would have a little more fun. Zach can't help but feel bad for someone who actually finds Paris _boring_. If Paris is boring, then how does L.A. measure up? Or anywhere else, for that matter?

Chris looks bored even now, completely unamused as Zach flips through his pocket French dictionary, trying to find the section that contains phrases for ordering food at restaurants. He keeps drumming his fingers against the wooden tabletop and it's making Zach nervous.

"Uh, yeah, I, um..." Zach scrutinizes a page, then flips it, sitting up straight when he finds the right phrase. " _Je voudrais une baguette et_ —"

"Your accent is terrible," Chris interrupts, laughing. Zach gapes at him, spreading his hands.

"Um, hello? I took Spanish in high school and German in college. I'm not exactly a scholar in this neck of the woods." Chris smirks and it's only then that Zach realizes the waiter is starting to look a little peeved. He gives him a sheepish smile. "Um. Sorry. Wait, I mean...shit, I forgot; how do you say 'sorry?'"

He starts rifling through his book again, until Chris snatches it out of his hand, placing it face down on the table. Then he orders for both of them in perfectly accented French. Zach doesn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed. He grabs the book back, placing it on his lap and pouting, and Chris shakes his head, laughing.

"Don't look so put-upon. We were gonna be here all day if I waited for you."

Zach does have to concede that Chris' French sounded perfect, to his untrained ears. The waiter seemed to understand him, anyway. He rolls his eyes and smiles, taking a sip of the wine Chris picked out earlier.

"You mean you don't want to sit here all day, listening to me butcher French? My complete ignorance isn't charming you in every conceivable way?"

"Well," Chris says, refilling his glass. He can't quite seem to meet Zach's eyes and for some reason, that sends a little tingle through Zach. "I'm trying to be resilient."

Zach holds out his glass for more, before Chris puts the bottle down, and half-wonders exactly what's going on here, what this _is_. "You have your reasons, I'm sure."

*

The third time Chris orders for both of them, Zach gives him a smile that could knock the angels out cold and suddenly, he knows exactly what's going on. Really, it's been going on for ages.

A petite girl with a swingy blond ponytail brings them their coffees and looks so impossibly French as she walks that Chris has to laugh. Zach quirks a brow at him curiously, then sips at his dark roast and groans.

"God. Please, can we transport this café back to L.A. and put it in my backyard? Or better yet, can we just move into the building next door and drink this every day?" He points to the adjacent building and then pauses, snorting. "Oh, wait, never mind. I forgot; you think Paris is Snoozeville."

"It's growing on me," Chris replies, looking down into his mug.

"Well, wonder of wonders." Zach tilts his head, the inky strands of his bangs falling over his eyes. Chris resists the urge to reach across the table and brush them back, maybe twist them around his fingertips. "Enough for you to come see the Eiffel Tower with me after the premiere?"

Chris groans, leaning back in his chair. "Zach, we already saw it yesterday. Or have you forgotten the way Anton kept miming with his mini tower souvenir, toward Karl's ass?"

"Sadly, no. But this will be different." He looks across at Chris, his dark eyes glittering, and Chris thinks, words hazy and blurred in the back of his mind, that he'd move to Paris in a heartbeat—or anywhere else Zach wanted—if he promised to always look at him like that. "Just you and me this time," he says.

Chris wraps both of his hands around his mug, feeling it warm his fingers and palms. Hot, almost too hot. "After the premiere," he says.

"That's what I said."

"Yeah, okay." Chris pauses, then takes a sip of the hot coffee. "Again, no shorts."

Zach grins widely. "My hopes and dreams, dashed."

*

In the end, they don't even make it to the tower; they barely make it out of the party. Zach downs one too many glasses of complimentary champagne and soon, he's tipsy and trying to talk his way out of a grueling conversation with a couple that's way too attractive for their own good. He looks for Chris out of the corner of his eye and finds him in a small crowd, laughing uproariously, his head tipping back in a familiar way that tells Zach he's drunk, too.

"Ahh...j'excuse," he mumbles to the beautiful female of the beautiful couple. He grabs another glass of champagne from a passing cater-waiter as he winds his way toward Chris, gulping at it fast enough to make his eyes burn. Chris catches his eye about two seconds before Zach grabs him by the elbow, leading him away. " _Excusez-moi_!" Zach calls behind him. Chris stumbles a little at his side, laughing.

"Dude, I owe you my _life_ ; that was fucking _brutal_. Where are we going?"

"Beats me," Zach says, grinning at him. "Come on."

Chris lets Zach lead him by the cuff of his suit jacket, through the clusters of drinking movers and shakers; Zach thinks he hears Karl call after them to ask where they're going, and instead of answering, he hustles faster. He feels like some sort of international spy as he pushes his way past the closest door, exchanging an incredulous look with Chris when they realize it's the entryway to the kitchen. Various line cooks yell at them in French, or maybe they yell at each other, as Zach and Chris dash through the area, past a blur of white smocks and chef hats, nearly taking a young kid's head off as well as the tray of hors d'oeuvres in his hands. Zach ducks to avoid another tray and nearly trips on a dishrag. He never lets go of Chris' sleeve.

The next door Zach pushes open gets them outside and he gasps at the sudden shock of fresh air on his face. Chris darts forward, yelling, "To the tower!" and grabs Zach's bicep, trying to pull him but ending up twirling him around, causing him to giggle.

"Wait, wait," he protests, his shoulder falling against the brick of the building's exterior. It should smart, but the haze of alcohol dulls the impact. Chris stops as instructed and moves to lean against the wall as well; he ends up losing his balance and falling against Zach's chest instead, effectively pinning him down. Zach laughs breathlessly, expecting Chris to move, touching the small of his back when five muddy seconds tick by slowly and Chris stays put. His lashes flutter in response to the warm breath suddenly puffing against his cheek. "Wait," he repeats, though he doesn't really mean it, is just wondering when his brain is going to catch up with his body—with Chris' body.

"Okay," Chris whispers, just resting a hand against Zach's waist. He tucks his nose in the shallow nook alongside Zach's and they stay like that for a few moments, breathing in the same air.

Then— _then_ Zach gets it.

He leans forward just a half-second before Chris does, and the initial feel of those chapped, licked-red lips sends such a jolt through him that he has to curl his fingers in Chris' shirt for purchase. This may be the champagne at work but really, it's not—it _couldn't_ be. They've been working up to this for months, what with all the offhand touches and comments and hints of flirtation that Zach wouldn't let himself properly digest because as far as he knew, Chris was his straight friend. But now, he doesn't seem so straight and is friendlier than usual, lapping at Zach's mouth until it opens for him and groaning as he slides his tongue home, pulling at Zach's belt loops to grind their hips together. Zach feels the vibrations from the music inside thumping through the wall, directly against his back, out of sync with the movement of Chris' body. He sucks at the tongue between his lips briefly, then pulls back, gasping for air.

"Wait," he says again. He can't look away from Chris' swollen mouth. "Chris, you don't...I'm not..."

"I'm in love with you," Chris blurts, his pupils contracting as he says it. Zach laughs in surprise, all the words in his repertoire officially stuck somewhere in his throat. He sees a flicker of hurt in Chris' eyes and immediately slides a hand down his back, as if to comfort him. Chris keeps staring at him, insistent, like a little boy. "I mean it."

"I know. You wouldn't—you wouldn't say it if you didn't—"

"Yeah."

Chris licks his lips and kisses Zach once more, hard and purposeful, then sinks to his knees on the damp, broken pavement of the alleyway. His coordination slightly off, Chris' fingers keep brushing against the fabric pulling across Zach's crotch as he works to open the belt and trousers. Between the errant touches and the look of determination on Chris' face, Zach's cock feels almost burdensome inside its confines; it's heavy and full by the time Chris takes it between his lips and the sweet, wet warmth nearly brings tears to Zach's eyes.

"Fuck," he whimpers, barely able to keep up with the situation unfolding. " _Chris_."

Zach skims his fingers across the back of Chris' neck and allows himself all the gasps and moans he wants. Chris is a little sloppy, a little inexperienced, but so hot and so eager that Zach's already dangerously close to coming. He doesn't want it to end so quickly, wants to open his eyes and take everything in: the glow of the streetlamp, the sweat glistening along Chris' neat hairline as Zach draws his thumb across his scalp. And if the buildings are too high for him to see the Eiffel Tower, only affording a view of the stars, he doesn't even care; this is the only memory of Paris he needs.

"God, love you," Zach moans. Chris' fingertips press into his hipbones, hard enough to leave marks. Then they slide to the hot place between Zach's thighs and the Parisian sky blanks out completely.

*

Chris isn't used to waking up to fresh linens. The bed sheets feel so good draped along his waist, and the pillow is crisp and cool beneath his cheek. He feels rustling beside him after the faint sound of a knock at the door, and then he's content to drift off again. A few minutes later, he smells the unmistakable scent of breakfast food; when he cracks his eyes open, Zach's standing in front of the picture window, prodding at a room service tray, his body a lean silhouette in front of all that light pouring into the room. Zach is so gorgeous in this moment that Chris can't imagine he belongs anywhere else than in an impeccable Parisian hotel room, licking spilt jam from his fingertips.

"When'd you get that?" Chris murmurs, voice cracked with sleep. Zach looks up and gives him a wide smile.

"Last night, after you conked out on me." He flicks his hair back, mussed from sleep, and though Chris has seen him like this in the morning countless times, this is the first instance in which it's post-coital between them—when Zach's hair is crazy and clothes long since removed because Chris made him that way. He pours two slim glasses of orange juice and Chris watches through lidded eyes, licking his lips. "Do you want to eat at the table or in bed? They gave us trays."

"You," Chris mumbles, not moving from his position on his stomach. "In bed. With me."

"Chris," Zach says, one hand moving to his hip. "It'll get cold."

"So? We'll get more. We're rich and famous; we can do whatever we want."

"Not just yet, really."

But Zach sighs and covers the trays up, going back to the bed as directed, assuming a lazy sprawl over Chris' back. Chris sighs happily at the sudden warmth and the kisses Zach peppers over the nape of his neck, his shoulders. The moment is a stark contrast to the frenzied nature of last night: the way they sprinted to find a cab after it was decided it probably wouldn't be overly romantic to actually fuck in the alleyway; the biting kisses and gropes they exchanged during the ride to the hotel; the breathless, dizzied feeling Chris got as soon as he walked into Zach's room instead of his own, knowing Zach wanted him here, and how he thought he might explode if he didn't get to have this man and come inside him.

He finds that Paris isn't so bad when Zach is a part of it. In fact, he actually likes it here.

"Just make yourself right at home," he murmurs into his pillow chidingly. Zach smothers a laugh into his shoulder and Chris smiles. It's an amazing thing that they can just fall right into this dynamic, when twenty-four hours ago, they hadn't yet shared a kiss.

"Think I just might," Zach says. He sweeps a hand down Chris' back with just enough pressure to melt away any lingering stress from the premiere. Then he leans down and kisses behind Chris' ear, whispering. "How do you feel about morning sex?"

"I feel great about it." Chris quirks a brow when he feels Zach's hand sliding lower. "How do you feel about topping?"

"I think I can handle it," Zach whispers. He slides a single finger down between Chris' cheeks, grazing over his entrance lightly enough to tease and make Chris groan. When he speaks again, Chris can hear the smile in his voice. "So long, Chris...for so long, I thought you were straight as an arrow. All those women... You really had me fooled. For a while, it was like you had a new one every night."

Chris huffs and spreads his legs as best as he can under Zach. "Stop talking about women and play with my ass, goddamn it."

Zach's laughter is bright like the morning sunshine gleaming on the juice glasses across the room. He shifts to find the lube they used last night, buried somewhere amidst the sheets, and soon he's stretching Chris expertly, making him grunt and rut against the bed. Chris presses his forehead to the mattress and concentrates on breathing, until Zach slides a hand under his chest and murmurs something, guiding him onto his side.

"Yeah?" Zach asks, kissing the freckled skin behind Chris' armpit. Chris just nods and extends his leg back to wrap around Zach, not trusting himself to speak. When he feels Zach push inside, he reaches out blindly for his wrist, holding it as tightly as he dares, shuddering in response to the wild pulse beating just beneath the surface. Chris doesn't breathe until Zach's fully seated, and just then, he remembers all too clearly how reckless he was the night before, his declarations of love spilling forth, unfiltered and clumsy. The embarrassment blooms like a cloud of dry cotton in his chest.

"God," he mutters. He lets Zach's wrist go and then there's a hand against his chest, rubbing in circles, dry lips pressed to his ear.

"I know, Chris, me too."

And just like that, the cloud dissipates, erased by warmth.

They start to move together and Chris opens his eyes to the sight of Paris outside the window—fucking _all_ of it, stretched out for miles—the curtains wide open and the sun spilling over the carpet, reaching for them on the bed. He's an actor visiting Paris but right now, above all else, he's Zach's lover, splayed across Zach's temporary bed, gasping for breath and clutching him closer. For a long, spiraling moment, he has no idea how he got here and no idea why he'd ever want to leave.

 

II.

Zach returns home after the press tour to a kitchen that contains nothing but dog and cat chow, a jar of mustard and one lonely pudding cup. He fills Noah and Harold's food bowls in anticipation of their arrival from Joe's, then sits on the hardwood floor and eats the pudding. He leans back against the counter and exhales, taking in the sorely missed sight of his home. _Home_ : a concept that seems so foreign after months of jetting from country to country, each destination more strange and surreal than the last.

He shuts his eyes and thinks of Paris; thinks of Chris, who's currently puttering around his own house, making sure nothing burned down in his absence. Then he's supposed to come over. It's a little thrilling—that instead of just falling into a shared bed in an ever-shifting hotel surrounding, that Chris is coming over to his place with fucking popcorn and a movie, like a real boyfriend. Zach even gave him his spare key; he can't remember the last time he gave a key to anyone besides Joe.

As he's licking the last of the pudding from his spoon, there's a knock at the door. Speak of the devil; it's his brother, with a very excited Noah and a bristly Harold, who's more than happy to leave the confines of his carrier and reclaim all of his territory. Zach crouches and takes Noah into his arms as Harold stalks away, effectively ignoring him.

"Your cat's a jerk," Joe says, leaning a hand against the wall. "Gave me the cold shoulder the entire time I was feeding his ungrateful, furry butt."

"He doesn't like change." Zach smiles up at Joe, scratching behind Noah's ears. "Also, he's pissed at me for abandoning him. But he'll get over it in a few hours, I'm sure."

"Pissed? He lived like a king under my roof. I wish I had it half as good." Joe smiles as Zach stands, then takes him into his embrace for a tight hug, kissing his cheek. "It's good to have you back, little bro. I hope you're not all world-weary now."

Zach smiles, patting Joe's back. "Not at all. I mean...Joe, it was _amazing_. Every second of it. Especially because, um..." He blushes faintly, glancing toward the food bowls, where Noah and Harold have taken up residence. "Something sort of...happened along the way. Between me and Chris."

"Well, _finally_. I was wondering when you two would do it and get it over with already; I was starving."

"God, no. No quoting Winona Ryder movies ever again. She's, like...my _mom_ now."

"If she birthed you as a toddler, sure. And actually, I am starving." Joe glances over at the fridge. "But you've probably just got ketchup in there or something."

Zach shrugs, surveying the rest of his place. He remembers he's got a suitcase full of dirty laundry that needs to be cleaned. "Mustard."

"Yeah, I'll pass. Well, anyway, Z...I'm happy for you." Joe nods, putting the carrier down by the door. "Just, you know. Be careful with the whole thing, okay?"

"I know; it's bad publicity, yadda yadda."

Joe gives him a faint smile. "Not that. More like... Remember when I went backpacking through Europe after college? And I met that Danish girl who was so amazing and then she tried moving here and it sort of...fizzled?"

" _Joe_ ," Zach scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Chris was my friend first. It's not some madcap European romance, here."

"I'm just saying that travel can do funny things to people. The change in scenery, maybe? I dunno. It's just that now you're back and you're both going to be a lot more grounded. I mean, is Chris going to go to Whole Foods with you and help you dry the dishes and put a blanket over you when you fall asleep during _The Tonight Show_?"

"He might." Zach purses his lips. "He likes the Indian buffet at Whole Foods."

"Just be careful, Zach; that's all I'm trying to say here. Now, I'm gonna bounce because that mustard is starting to sound pretty good to me."

"Okay," he says, laughing. "I've got laundry to do anyway. Thanks for watching the gremlins."

Joe smirks as he opens the door to leave. "Toothsome beasts."

Zach thinks about Joe's warning for the rest of the afternoon, wondering if there's actually something cogent to his advice. Sure, Paris was magical, not to mention the rest of the tour. But it had to be real. It _was_ real. Zach can't replay all of those stolen moments together—furtive kisses and blatant longing, memories he never thought he'd get and now won't give up for anything—and think of them as anything but one-hundred percent genuine.

The jet lag catches up with him as he flips through TV channels and waits for the clothes to finish their cycle in the dryer. When they're done, Zach goes and collects everything in his hamper, then walks toward his bedroom with his eyes half-closed. He ends up nearly tripping over Harold, the little fiend, and spills his clean clothes all over the floor. One moment, he's conscious of kneeling down to gather them up; the next, he's sprawled out on the floor atop a makeshift bed of warm, fresh-scented fabric, his nose tucked into a T-shirt and something tickling his scalp. Zach opens his eyes blearily and sees Chris kneeling down beside him, running fingers through his hair.

"Tired, huh?" he whispers. Zach just nods faintly. "And here I thought you'd collapsed under the weight of my absence. Let's save the movie for another night. Wanna head to bed or should I bring over a blanket and tuck you in right here?"

Zach smiles, if only because he's pleased to prove Joe wrong. But he's pleased for other reasons, too. "Bed," he concedes, and after a few seconds, he lets Chris help him up from the floor. When he peels the T-shirt from his cheek, he realizes it belongs to Chris.

*

It turns out that the cast can only bear to be apart for about five days before someone breaks down and corrals everyone for plans. It turns out to be John, who spent ages complaining about how much he wished he could be home with his family and now wants nothing more than to reconnect, preferably with copious amounts of alcohol. Chris and Zach have their orders: Bring wine and lots of it.

Chris is in a bad mood as he stares down at the label of a bottle of cabernet. He's felt moody ever since some goddamn paparazzo lowlife popped out of nowhere during his morning run with Zach and snapped about a million photos of them doing nothing more interesting than jogging and sweating. Zach was wearing his ridiculous exercise outfit of a tank top and flared sweatpants and they probably reeked of couplehood—or maybe that was just Chris' imagination. Either way, he was silently thanking the heavens all day that they hadn't been doing something romantic when the camera first flashed. He'd given Zach a kiss before they set off from his house, squeezed his hand.

"Chris, you're supposed to be looking at white wines, remember? I'm the red expert."

"Oh, yeah," Chris says. He lets Zach take the bottle of cabernet away and flicks a glance to the basket in his grip, filled with four bottles of wine. "Jesus, Zach, do we have to buy out the whole store?"

"I'm going to decide on three before we leave. Meanwhile, you haven't found a single white yet."

"My mind's elsewhere," Chris sighs.

"You still grumping over that paparazzi thing?" Zach shakes his head, walking toward a shelf with pinot grigios. "It's only going to start happening more and more. I know we thought we were too boring to be photographed, but I think we severely underestimated the charm of our sweaty morning runs."

Chris adjusts his sunglasses and shoves his hands into his pockets, turning his back to the bottles so he can face Zach. "It's just so stupid. Just because some housewife somewhere creams her pants over photos of celebrities doing banal things, we have to be so fucking careful about everything we do, every second of the day. Like, I can't just grab you and kiss you right here in this store if I wanted to, because someone could have a fucking spy cam."

Zach laughs faintly and trades one of the red bottles in the basket for a white. "I've got news for you: It wouldn't be so easy to do that anyway, even if we weren't famous." He shrugs and gives Chris a plain look. "Welcome to the life of a gay man."

"Ugh, Zach..." Chris frowns and squeezes his temples with his thumb and forefinger. The last thing he wants is a lecture from Zach on the public politics of sexuality. "Don't start this more-tortured-than-thou shit."

"Christopher," Zach replies, and it reminds Chris of the past in a way that doesn't feel as nice as it usually does. "I'm just saying, other people have had it a lot worse and still do have it a lot worse."

"So I'm not allowed to feel crappy about my situation because of decades of gay bashing or, I dunno, because there are starving children in Africa? Give me a fucking break."

Zach gives him a look that tells Chris just how disappointed he is in him and it sickens him even more, makes him want to grab the basket out of Zach's hands and smash all of his carefully selected wines against the white tiled floor. Instead, he just stands there as Zach hastily grabs two more bottles without appraising them first, says, "You sound ridiculous right now," and walks past him, toward the shop's front register.

And Chris _feels_ ridiculous. But not for snapping at Zach, but rather for getting himself into this whole situation—something that looms so far out of his control, he can't even touch it.

He moves to join Zach and sneers to himself as he passes the French wines. Paris now exists in Chris' mind as a fog of uncomfortable childhood moments and lazy mornings of fresh pastries and slow sex, and he's losing track of which memories he's come to resent.

*

Zach smothers a needy cry into the sheets, bunching as much of the fabric as he can in his hands. Chris has him bent over the bed, his hard warmth sinking into him over and over again, and Zach just can't help moaning his pleasure, twisting for an angle that he knows will feel best. Even when he and Chris are fighting—and they have been lately, quite a lot, to the point that Zach has been battling daily headaches and retreating into yoga and books, spending more time with friends and on set—the sex is always a comfort, so sweet and so perfect that it almost hurts, like a confection that's too beautiful to eat.

He wonders, sometimes, if this is their way of reliving those first few days together, those gorgeous days and nights in Paris wholly spent living in each other's arms.

"Zach," Chris groans, his voice breaking in that way that Zach adores. He reaches down to press one hand over Zach's heart, curling the other around Zach's cock. Suddenly, it's difficult to breathe. "Fuck, so good...s-so..."

" _Please_ ," Zach gasps, dropping his head forward. It only takes a few more strokes of Chris' hand before Zach comes on the bed, the muscles in his arms quivering as if they'll break out of his skin. Chris follows a few seconds later and falls over on top of Zach, his skin so warm that it's like a sunbeam's landed across his back. Zach reaches out and wraps his hand around Chris' fingers, smiling faintly when they flex in his grip. He brings them to his lips, kissing every knuckle and nailbed, all of which taste of tobacco.

"What're you doing?" Chris mumbles. Zach turns his head as best as he can and gets a glimpse of Chris smiling shyly.

"Expressing my love for you." He smiles back. "Terribly queer of me, I know."

"It was very butch finger kissing, trust me."

"I suppose you would know."

It's not like the way it used to be, this stifling silence now filling the void where comfortable quiet used to exist in the hours they weren't needed for interviews or soundbites, tangled in each other and drifting between sex, deep kisses and sleep. Zach can _feel_ Chris tensing against him, like he wants to leave but doesn't know how to excuse himself; he supposes there really is no way out in a moment like this.

"If you need to go, it's okay," Zach says. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he hates himself for uttering them—for succumbing to the tension that threatens this love he needs so much.

But if Chris wants to go, then Chris wants to go.

"Nah," Chris responds, kissing Zach's nape. "Where else do I have to be that's better than this?"

Zach doesn't quite know the answer to that question, but he suspects that Chris must.

*

He supposes he could blame it on any number of people beside himself, even if it's not true. Like Zach, who has to stay late on the _Heroes_ set yet again, or Zoe, who needed a date to this dinner party, or Zoe's boyfriend, who already had plans he couldn't break. Maybe Zoe again, who keeps ignoring him during the dinner and spends most of her time talking to other people, laughing at their jokes and accepting their refills of wine.

But in the end, it's Chris' own fault that he indulges the pretty girl who sits down next to him, and he knows it. He's always had a weakness for pretty girls, after all. Plus, he can't remember the last time he actually met or spoke to someone new.

"Are you as bored as I am?" she asks, and Chris laughs, not yet looking up from his glass even though he likes the voice.

"Probably ten times as much. Women always manage to have a better time at these things."

"I don't know about that. I'm only here as a favor to someone."

"Me too," Chris says.

He looks up at her, then, and smiles in pleasant surprise. She's pretty all right, but not overtly so, with dark, dark hair and catlike eyes. She smells of bright citrus, like lemon zinger tea, and she has these freckles that stand out along her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. She doesn't look like she's trying too hard and that's a rare sight these days. She tilts her head and returns his smile, her brown hair cascading over one shoulder.

"You mean that ridiculously stunning woman you came with isn't your date?"

"No...well, just for the night. She's way too good for me," Chris says, trying for self-deprecating charm. She just laughs and nods in agreement.

"You're right about that."

"Oh, come on. How do you—"

"I'm just _saying_..."

"Really, you're killing me, here."

She waves the hand that's not holding her wine dismissively. "It's not an insult. If she looks like _that_ , then she's too good for anyone. Some people are cursed with that particular dilemma, sadly." Her eyes slide to Zoe across the room in mock envy and Chris wants to look as well, but he's having trouble making himself look at anyone or anything beyond this girl—this sharp-tongued, fresh breath of a girl. When she turns back to him, she smiles indulgently. "Whereas I'm sure you're good enough for _someone_."

"Well," he says, considering his glass and fighting a grin. "Maybe one or two someones."

And it's _nice_ , this sort of thing. If he's completely honest with himself, he's missed how easy it is to flirt with a woman, how no one blinks an eye when she leans into him or he looks at her mouth a moment too long. He went directly from a Parisian whirlwind of romance to being smack-dab in the midst of a relationship with a _man_ —from stolen kisses in alleyways to shopping for coffee tables at Crate and Barrel—and he's barely even been able to enjoy it. It's like all of the work of being in a couple with none of the fun or excitement.

He's lost in his thoughts when the woman reaches out to grab the bread basket on the table, stretching her slim arm over his place setting like he's not even there. Chris scoffs and gives her a devastating furrow of his brow.

"You know, if you wanted some bread, you could have asked, Miss..."

"Olivia." She laughs sharply, tearing off a piece of bread from the loaf. "You know, if you wanted to know my name, you could have asked."

"I'm pretty sure I just did."

"Oh, you're a tricky one. I'd better watch out for you."

He holds out his hand for the bread basket and Olivia chews slowly as she passes it back to him, their fingers grazing along the way. She smiles with pursed lips, her mouth still full. Chris laughs and shakes his head.

Easy, he thinks. And it feels so good.

*

In the end, Zach doesn't even get the luxury of knowing _when_ it ends because it all seems to happen behind closed doors—in another world that Chris has constructed elsewhere, without him.

But it does end. Zach sets about picking out an outfit for an event, the television on mute in the background, and when he turns around at just the right moment, he sees footage of Chris on the screen, walking out of a club with some woman Zach has never met. He grips his belt tightly as he watches, unable to tear his eyes away until the segment is over, and then he just exhales shakily and looks away, fumbling to get the strip of leather through his belt loops.

He sits on the edge of his bed and calls Zoe. "He's cheating," he states, instead of "hello." Zoe takes a moment too long to respond and Zach can tell she just saw what he did. TMZ has always been their collective guilty pleasure.

"He's not," she finally says. She sounds so determined that Zach wants to hug her through the phone. "He couldn't be. Oh, honey."

"Maybe." He shrugs, rubbing at his eyes. "But, I mean...he is."

"Honey," she says again, sighing. Zach sniffs, finding himself at a loss after all, unprepared for his own phone call.

"I should go."

That night, Zach comes home to find Chris already asleep in his bed, doing some of his best acting against the backdrop of Zach's life. And though Zach wants to hate Chris for pretending that nothing has changed—that there isn't some nameless woman looming in the background as a symbol of something so utterly broken between them—he wants nothing more than to pretend, too. He's not ready to give this up yet—this comfort that the damn television dared to take away from him in an instant, like there was hardly even anything to take.

Zach climbs into bed behind Chris and tucks his nose against the solid, familiar warmth of his neck muscles. Chris feels his breath and stirs slightly.

"Long day," he whispers tiredly. Zach nods and shuts his eyes.

"The longest."

After that, things begin to peter out on their own. Chris comes by less frequently, maybe once or twice a week, and then he doesn't come at all. They never acknowledge that things have ended. Chris just keeps showing up on gossip blogs and the E! Network in photos with this girl whose name Zach still doesn't know because he never looks or listens closely enough. And Zach only wonders what happened to the courageous man who pinned him against the brick wall in Paris and told him everything.

In a word, it's sad. Zach tries to go back to his old life and Joe has the grace to never tell him _I told you so_.

The cast has lost touch, too, so weeks later, when Zach receives an e-mail invitation from Karl for an impromptu get-together, he's delighted—so delighted that he's determined not to let Chris' likely presence disrupt the promise of a good time.

Of course, when Chris shows up with his girlfriend, that just shoots everything to hell.

Her name is Olive or Olympia—something that Zach decides to forget as soon as he shakes her hand. It's not her fault, Zach reasons; she's pretty and charismatic and that's enough to turn the heads of most men. Not that he cares about most men.

"I cannot _believe_ he brought her," Zoe seethes at Zach's side, cosmo clenched between her fingers. "I will throw down if you need me, honey, I swear to _god_. You know I'm not afraid to take off these earrings."

Zach looks down at her and tries to smile as kindly as he can. He knows the sordid back story now, knows that Zoe brought Chris to that awful dinner party. And he can see right through that scowl on her face.

"It's not your fault, Z," he says. Her bottom lip trembles in response.

"Oh, jesus," she whispers. "You were just so happy."

Karl's living room starts to get a little suffocating around half past ten and Zach finds himself out on the front porch, lighting a cigarette and relishing the chance to be alone.

When Zach hears someone say, "Got another one?" he doesn't need to turn around to place the voice, so he doesn't bother. Chris answers his silence with a heavy sigh. "Look, Zach...I was going to tell you. I swear."

"Oh, my god," Zach mutters, laughing. "As if you're really so clueless to think I didn't know all along. You fucking knew, Chris; you knew everything. We're not idiots."

"Please forgive me," Chris whispers. Zach turns his head slightly and tries not to gasp at the sight of him standing there in the makeshift halo of Karl's porch light. Chris shouldn't be allowed to be so fucking beautiful, not anymore. "I didn't even want to bring her. I mean, she _insisted_... She's never met any of my friends before, so—"

"Because they all know you're a fucking coward and they'd just feel sorry for her," Zach snaps, gesturing brusquely. "Right? And the last thing you want to do is hurt _Olive_ , whoever the hell she is."

"Her name's Olivia," Chris murmurs. Zach narrows his eyes, speaks from the edges of his teeth.

"And I give a fuck?"

Chris blinks and swallows heavily, looking down at the ash from Zach's cigarette, scattered on his sleeve. "Zach." He takes a step closer and Zach flinches. "Please. It—it's not the _same_. It's too hard, you know? I don't feel as...I want—"

"Fuck off," Zach chokes out. Chris' breath turns ragged, his voice pleading.

"What about everything that happened, Zach? You can't tell me you forgot about any of that. What about Paris? I mean, I can't just—"

" _Don't_ ," Zach barks, flicking the cigarette away, hands balling into fists. "Don't even talk about Paris, Chris. Don't you fucking _dare_."

Chris goes quiet for a moment, his eyes rimmed with saltwater; so pale and icy blue in the dim light that Zach wants to put a hand over them and protect himself. "But it's all I ever think about," he finally whispers. Zach looks away long enough to be wrestled against the wall—Chris' hot, familiar breath against his mouth for a split second before Zach pushes him away with both hands and retreats, leaving him to the life he chose.

Later, Zach looks at himself in his car's rearview mirror, eyes burning and cheeks ruddy, and tells himself the same thing he said to Chris before he ran: "It's not enough."

 

III.

 _If I die of boredom, do you think they'll use JLo's dress as my burial shroud?_

 _it's cheap enough._

Chris smothers a laugh into his palm, flinching when his mother smacks his arm and tells him to pay attention. Like it really matters; it's the Oscars. He'd much rather explore his rekindled friendship with Zach over snarky texts about all of the A-list assholes sitting with him in the Kodak Theatre. They've been on speaking terms again for about three weeks and Chris realizes, giggling over every word Zach types, that he's really, truly _missed_ him—and not just the romance. He misses the best friend who he had at least six different high-fives and fist bumps with on set, who whispered catty remarks to him at parties; who butchered French like it was a dead language and threatened to switch all of Chris' clothes with shorts and suspenders, then force him into posing before the Eiffel Tower.

But he tries not to think about Paris. Not often, anyway.

 _btw,_ Zach's next text reads, _we made a big splash on the interwebs this week. did you see?_

Chris nods to himself as he texts back, remembering the photo of him and Zach in the car that got snapped and posted all over their fan sites—Chris twisting to put on his seatbelt and Zach in the driver's seat, unshaven and mouth gaping like a fish.

He'd never been so thrilled to be photographed by the paparazzi before.

 _Sure did. You've never looked sexier._

 _and you looked ridiculous in The Scarf That Ate Cincinnati._

 _I have it under good advisement that Cincinnati is delicious._

Zach stops texting for a while after that, probably enjoying the hell out of whatever party he's attending, so Chris starts paying attention to the awards again. He's already presented the clip for _District 9_ and would be seriously entertaining the idea of skipping out early if not for his mother, who wants to stay for the entire thing. Up until the very messy—and very public—break-up a few months ago, Olivia was supposed to be the one filling the seat beside him.

Really, he wishes it were Zach with him, but he knows that sort of thing could never happen. He thinks about the mini-lecture Zach gave him in the liquor store and feels twin pangs of annoyance and regret.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzes again.

 _tyler's sending me agency photos from the red carpet. you look adequate._

Chris can't help but laugh quietly. _I look more than adequate and you know it. You're just jealous. Sip that Haterade._

 _i'm a lot of things, but i'm not jealous._

Chris blanches slightly at the loaded statement, wishing he had some kind of mainline into Zach's brain right now. But no such luck. He gets distracted by Sandra Bullock's win, which apparently requires a standing ovation. Chris gets up as his phone starts to vibrate in his hand, and he flips it open quickly.

 _btw, someone raise jim henson from the dead and tell him that zoe's stylist skinned a defenseless muppet_

This time, Chris snorts loudly. His mother hits him again.

*

Zach arrives for his lunch with his agent about fifteen minutes early and grabs a table by the window, making sure a cup of coffee is within his grasp in minutes flat. He winces inwardly when his phone starts to buzz in his jacket pocket, then lets out a sigh of relief when he sees Joe's name on the screen.

"Hey, I can't talk long," he says when he picks up. "I'm waiting for Mark to show up for a lunch meeting about that Woody Allen movie." He takes a sip of his coffee and resists the immediate urge to pull a face; even after all this time, he thinks that amazing French coffee has ruined all other java-flavored beverages for him.

"What Woody Allen movie? You're auditioning for a Woody Allen movie?"

"I told you just the other day—"

"Oh...right! I remember now. Cool."

Zach rolls his eyes. "It's nice to know you take such a strong interest in my career."

"Listen: you're awesome, I'm your biggest fan, lather, rinse, repeat. You busy Thursday? I was thinking maybe a movie and bar night, if you're free."

"Um, lemme think." Zach shuts his eyes and consults his mental calendar, reminding himself of his appointments for the week. "I think Chris mentioned doing something that night, so...yeah, let's go out then."

"Huh." Joe pauses and Zach can feel the power of his know-it-all smirk through the phone connection. "So, how's that whole 'friend' thing going, anyway? I see you're really committed to your interpersonal discourse."

Zach just groans, running nervous fingers through his hair. "I think I need to _be_ committed, Joe. I mean, what was I thinking, reviving a relationship with him? I know it's important for us to be on good terms with the filming on the horizon, but..."

"It's difficult," Joe fills in. "You loved him. You gave him, well...all of you. And he hurt you. I know that, Zach."

"It's just..." Zach shuts his eyes tiredly. He knows damn well everything Joe is saying is true, but admitting it seems equivalent to giving Chris some sort of power that he doesn't deserve. He doesn't want to be angry anymore; he got angry that one night, then woke up the next morning, determined to be Zachary Quinto again, not just Zach of "Chris and Zach." But Chris _does_ have power—probably more than he even realizes. "He seems all too content, going back to the way things were before we...you know. I just can't muster the energy for it. He still drives me crazy."

"He's probably just thrilled to have you back in his life however he can get you, little bro. He's gotta know he fucked up big time with you."

"It's okay when we're in a group or talking or texting. I just can't..." Zach trails off, spotting Mark strolling down the sidewalk in the window. "Look, I have to go," he sighs. "I'll call you about Thursday."

"Roger," Joe says.

Mark, his kind but somewhat neurotic agent, is all smiles, even as he apologizes profusely for being late, blaming it on the wife. He gestures rapidly and bobs his knee under the table and shows Zach photos of his daughter on his BlackBerry. He's a warm, if not somewhat predictable presence, which is comforting in itself.

Zach sips his coffee and watches with carefully restrained amusement as Mark shoves forkfuls of spinach into his mouth. The man hardly ever stops to breathe when he eats.

"My wife says this stuff is good for me," Mark explains, shrugging. "I could go for a cheeseburger right now."

"Me too," Zach says, though he's enjoying his omelet. "So, spill already, Mark. You know damn well that I'm _dying_ to hear whether or not I got this part and _I_ know you didn't invite me out to discuss the importance of dietary fiber."

"I _could have_. But you're right; I didn't." He looks around to make sure no one is watching or listening and then leans across the table, grinning widely. "You got it."

"Oh, my god," Zach gasps, nearly dropping his fork. Though the fact that Mark invited him out for lunch rather than letting him down easy over the phone should have tipped him off, Zach didn't actually expect to hear good news. "I got it. A Woody _fucking_ Allen film. This is so...oh, my god!"

"Zach, it's fantastic. Just totally fucking fantastic. Congratulations." He reaches out across the table to clap Zach's arm. "It starts shooting in a month, give or take a week. And you'll be filming on location in Paris for six weeks."

Zach swallows his water just in time, his heart doing a heavy thud in his chest. Though most of his good friends and confidants know about what transpired between him and Chris in Paris, Zach kept totally mum as far as his representation was concerned. There was no point in getting them riled up over bad press, after all, when things were great and they were obviously going to live happily ever after. Behind closed doors. Forever.

"Nice," he says, nodding slowly and deliberately. "I, um...I love Paris. The City of Light, right? _Paris, je t'aime._ "

"Sure, okay," Mark replies, giving him an odd look. "Anyway, it's a great script, great move for you. And now that the casting's done, I can safely add: great ensemble cast."

"Uh huh." Zach blinks, feeling a strange sense of foreboding as he toys with the paper napkin in his lap—like the other shoe is about to drop, anvil-shaped and just as heavy, right on his head. He watches Mark eat more of his salad, pushing some leaves and stray cranberries around his plate.

"Woody's really excited about you, Zach," he says. "It's going to totally change the trajectory of your career. Oh, and hey—you'll be glad to hear this—your buddy Chris Pine got cast, too."

The shoe hits Zach square in the forehead, the phantom pain blinding. He feels another thud in his chest as he digs his fingers into his napkin, glad to have something he can rip into shreds.

*

Chris dreams of the Eiffel Tower breaking apart, its impressive spire falling upon hordes of fleeing people. He stands there dressed as Captain Kirk, clad in his black and mustard yellow uniform, and shuts his eyes as the weight of manmade construction tumbles to the ground, headed straight for his stoic, unmoving form, his vulnerable skull.

He wakes with a loud gasp, the pillow drenched in his own sweat. It's morning in Paris. Not surprisingly, his head is killing him.

Chris showers and decides to air dry, going to the large hotel window with only a towel wrapped around his waist. He presses his forehead to the glass and it clouds with his breath as he considers Paris. The last time he had a gander at this view, there was a familiar pair of arms wrapped around him, soft lips exploring the curvature of his neck, a clever tongue teasing the sensitive mole beneath his ear. Now there's just the cool air conditioning blowing steadily against the water droplets covering his bare shoulders, making him shiver.

And yet, Zach is _here_ , mere floors away.

He laughs at the sheer joke of it all, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. Then he thinks of his dream—the way he just stood there and let it all come tumbling down around him. It was a familiar sensation; something he knows how to do all too well.

Someone knocks at his door and Chris goes to answer it, thinking it's housekeeping. Instead, Karl Urban stands there with a maxed-out eyebrow and two cups of coffee.

"What are you doing here?" Chris asks, dumbfounded.

"Checking up on my lovelorn friend who's stuck filming in Paris with the man of his dreams. And with good reason, I find, seeing as how you're still standing around in a towel when you have to be on set. Have you considered getting dressed and—oh, I don't know—facing the day?"

"I considered it." Chris takes the coffee when it's offered to him. "Briefly."

"You're not going to be here for very long, you know," Karl says, letting himself into the room. "The days will go by fast. It'll be over before you know it."

"Not fast enough," Chris grumps. He turns away from Karl and replaces his towel with a fresh pair of underwear, pulling his jeans on over them. "Zach's looked fucking miserable ever since we boarded the plane in L.A. I thought he was going to get the dry heaves as soon as it touched down."

"You're exaggerating."

"And he's barely said a word to me. He acts like I'm not even around." Chris pulls on a T-shirt and sighs, gazing back toward the window. He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls on his Converse as Karl sits beside him. Once he's got the laces tied, Chris hunches forward, clasping his hands between his knees. "What a fucking failed experiment," he mutters.

"Your relationship with Zach?" Karl asks quietly. Chris shakes his head.

"No." He chews on his bottom lip. "Trying to be friends...dating Olivia. Pretty much every stupid idea I've had since I decided being with Zach was too weird or difficult, or whatever the fuck I thought."

Karl rubs his back lightly, giving him a look that falls somewhere between amusement and pity. "What _were_ you thinking, anyway, Pine?"

"I thought...it wasn't enough."

Chris looks back at the length of the bed and sees himself there, tucked neatly into Zach, slowly exploring by touch and taste—no rushing, no need to impress anyone, no one else in the world but the two of them.

"I was wrong," Chris whispers. Karl's strong grip flexes around his shoulder, paired with an understanding nod.

"Regret's the slowest death," he murmurs. "Lung cancer's next." He digs out a pack of cigarettes and lights one between his lips, then glances at Chris. "Can I smoke in here?"

"Only if you give me one."

"All I've got left is my lucky," Karl says with a pout, pulling out the final, upside-down cigarette. Chris swiftly plucks it from his fingers.

"Yeah, well. I'm gonna need it more than you."

*

Zach adjusts his glasses and goes back to the bar for the umpteenth refill on his wine. He knows he should call it a night but he feels awful and the mood calls for wine. His nerves are taxed from shooting and re-shooting scenes all day, until they're exactly how Woody wants them. Plus, he's stuck in a foreign country he no longer likes where everyone gives him dirty looks because he still doesn't know the language. Last time, he had a fair bit of help in that area; on this trip, he hasn't dared to ask.

And he _knows_ how to order in French now, but it's late and his head's pounding, and he can't, for the life of him, remember how to say this one simple thing. Zach smothers one side of his face with his hand and groans as the bartender looks at him expectantly.

"Just...another one, okay?" he grunts. Then he hears a patient, familiar voice.

" _Un autre verre de pinot noir, s'il vous plaît._ "

Zach huffs in annoyance over Chris' intrusion, even if it does get the bartender moving. "I didn't need your help. And how did you know I was drinking pinot noir?"

"You've been drinking it a lot since we got here. I noticed it's your new wine of choice."

"Is that your new thing now?" Zach asks, pulling money out of his wallet. "You notice stuff?"

Chris doesn't answer at first, motioning instead for a second glass of wine. "Yeah, this whole friends thing was a bad idea, wasn't it," he says, more of a statement than a question. And it's not malicious, simply observational.

Zach exhales, gulping too fast from his glass. "I just can't do it, Chris. I tried; I just can't make myself—"

"Well, of course you couldn't," Chris says, his eyes glittering as he pays for his drink. "We're not meant to be friends. We're better as a couple."

"You're kidding, right?" Zach laughs, giving him an odd look. "We sucked as a couple. We fought over everything and you..." He pauses for another drink of wine. "You went off with some girl and pretended like nothing had happened."

Chris squints. "Yeah, that was a dick move."

"This conversation is asinine." Zach exhales, rubbing his forehead and turning his back to the bar. He wishes Zoe were here to save him from this conversation, maybe threaten bodily harm with her stilettos and small fists. "If you want me to forgive you, just ask me to do it already so I can say no and move on."

"You know, I have a lot of regrets," Chris says, effectively ignoring him. Zach watches him, traces the movement of his fingers along the stem of his wineglass. Something tightens in his chest in response. "I did everything wrong. The only thing I don't regret is you. I didn't run away because I didn't love you enough, Zach; I ran because I loved you _too_ much. I wanted everything to be perfect, wanted all these things we couldn't have and...that was naïve. To think that being in love with the perfect person would always translate to a perfect love...? I mean, it's suicide."

Chris laughs at himself, self-deprecating and gorgeous, and Zach feels that familiar ache swell up, the one that comes just from looking at him. He tries to keep his eyes trained on the wineglass in Chris' hand instead.

"It would be just as hard the second time around. I can't do it again, Chris," he whispers. Chris nods curtly.

"I can't ask you to, anyway. Wouldn't be fair."

"I almost wish you would."

Chris smiles sadly at him. "It's probably just Paris," he says, shrugging. "I think it makes everyone a little reckless."

Zach wants to smile back, so he raises his glass to his mouth. "I'm beginning to see why you hate it."

" _Paris, je te déteste_ ," he hisses. Then he shakes his head and pushes away from the bar, moving back toward their crowd. "Nah, fuck that. Life is good, remember?"

Zach follows the path of Chris' retreating back, watches the laugh lines appear at the corners of his eyes when someone pats his shoulder, and suddenly remembers the good life all too well.

*

Chris stands by the foot of his hotel room bed and considers the empty suitcase lying open before him. He and Zach couldn't bear to tear themselves away from the crisp, fresh-smelling sheets (not to mention each other) the last time they were here, and ended up shoving clothes haphazardly into their bags as they ran out of the room, in order to make it to the taxi waiting downstairs. Now, it's ten o'clock at night, a full twelve hours before they have to leave for the airport again, and Chris has all the time in the world to pack, no warm and solidly muscled distractions of which to speak.

He folds and refolds the same pair of jeans three times before he realizes how distracted he is and tosses it into the bag.

When he's just about done, his phone starts to buzz and he's surprised to see that it's Zach calling. Chris leaves his open suitcase and walks toward the window with his phone, looking out at the sprawling, glittering city beyond the glass.

"You left the party early," Zach says. Chris can hear the echo of footfalls and wonders where Zach is walking.

"I thought we were just hanging out and having some drinks, so I decided to call it a night. I didn't realize it was a party."

"Well, it wasn't after you left."

Chris laughs, shaking his head. "Yeah, right. We both know I've been shitty company since we got here."

"Well, same." There's a ding in the background and Chris pictures Zach in an elevator, probably heading up to his hotel room. "What are you up to?"

"Just packing. Thinking I can't wait to get back to L.A." He licks his lips, turning away from the window. "I'm surprised you called."

"Yeah, well...I guess I was feeling a little reckless."

Chris blinks when the elevator dings again, the sound echoed out in the hall, beyond his door. His room is on the fifteenth floor; Zach's been staying on the twelfth. If the Eiffel Tower came crashing through his picture window right this minute, Chris wouldn't notice a thing.

"How reckless?" he asks, swallowing hard as he glances toward the door. A silent moment passes; then comes the answering knock.

Chris drops his phone and _runs_.

As soon as he opens the door, Zach is crowding his space, looking as though he wants to reach out and _touch_ —to grab Chris by the wrist and take what's always been his. Their chests are mere inches apart, both pairs of hands hovering in the air as if seeking direction. Zach's got that look in his eyes that Chris knows too well, the look that says he's been thinking himself into oblivion, and it takes all of Chris' strength to resist cupping Zach's chiseled face and placing kisses on his eyelids. But if Zach is anything like him—and he is, in some ways—then he must not want to blink, for fear of missing something special. Like this.

"I can't forgive you yet," Zach whispers. "But I'm tired of leaving things unsaid."

Chris reaches out to shut the door, then brushes his fingers against Zach's arm, unable to help himself. The view of Zach here, in his room, is better than any panoramic view of any city on Earth. "So what do you want to say?" he asks. Zach hesitates before touching their foreheads together; the brief contact feels scorching.

"All the things I've already said."

And when Chris does finally blink, it's like he's right back in that Parisian alleyway, his hands fisted in Zach's jacket, pulling him close—as close as he's meant to be. The scent of all-too-familiar aftershave fills Chris' nostrils and he can't possibly turn back now, not even if Zach wrenched away from him. Luckily, Zach's hands are already sliding into the back pockets of Chris' jeans, their mouths skimming, hot and sweet. It _is_ reckless, Chris knows, as reckless as it was the first time when Paris brought out the lofty declarations and romantic fools in them, but they can talk about what happens next later—and they _will_ talk. Right now, all Chris wants is to be reacquainted with Zach: the feel of one hand gripping Chris through the denim of his jeans and the other reaching up to cradle his nape, hold him still. He can tell Zach's holding back, though, and when Chris flicks his tongue against his delicate cupid's bow, that's when Zach's voice quivers and all the muscles needed to push Chris toward the bed spring into action.

The suitcase doesn't stand a chance, pushed carelessly to the floor while it's still open, so all of Chris' meticulously folded clothes go cascading out. He rolls around with Zach on the bed until he ends up on his back, and then there's no reason to wrestle away; he hooks a leg around Zach's and strains upward with a loud moan, the intense heat of the body against his throwing open the floodgates.

"Fuck, Zach...this is all I need, I fucking swear to you..."

"Fucking swear you'll stay with me, how about that?" Zach says between gasps for breath and sweltering kisses. "Fucking _be_ with me this time, not just in Paris."

"No, always," Chris says, nodding. He fumbles to open Zach's zipper, then his own. "Always, you and me, no regrets."

When their hips come to align, they both groan like starved men and begin to move against each other, falling into a learned rhythm that they both recall immediately. Zach presses his fingertips into the skin along Chris' hipbones and drops his face to the crook of his neck, his hot breaths quickening the pace of Chris' pulse. "Sounds perfect," he murmurs—and as Chris tips his head back and lets himself freefall toward climax, he finds he'd be hard pressed not to agree.

They kiss each other to sleep—earlobes, collarbones, tobacco- and hotel hand soap-scented fingertips—and the importance of phoning the lobby for a wake-up call is the last thing on Chris' mind before he goes to sleep. Then they jostle awake at 9:20 in the morning with only forty minutes between them to shower and get dressed. Once again, they find themselves throwing clothes and supplies into bags as they practically sprint out the door. Once he's safely on the flight, Zach's head tipped against his shoulder while he naps, Chris imagines he's bound to have forgotten a shirt or two back at the hotel. At any rate, he's still returning home with all of his valuables.

His stomach rumbles as they walk out of the terminal toward the cab stand and Zach walks ahead to corral the nearest car. Chris jogs to catch up, clumsily stuffed and bulging suitcase rolling behind him, catching on pavement cracks.

"I'm hungry," he says. "Wanna go to Whole Foods?"

Zach stops in his tracks and gives Chris a look that confuses the fuck out of him. But then the air fills with Zach's laughter, and that familiar sound is all it takes to make Chris happy.

Easy, he thinks. And it feels better than good.

This time, he's going to remember that.


End file.
